Drowning
by Evandar
Summary: Oneshot. He sits by the window and watches the rain, waiting for Regulus to come home. He's not sure what he'll do if he doesn't. Barty/Regulus


**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and am making no profit from this story.

**AN:** I'm just going to sit here with my OTP and my headcanons and be quiet... This was originally written for the weather-themed HP_Drizzle Fest on LJ.

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><p><span>Drowning<span>

by Evandar

It's still raining. The patter of it against the window and the street outside have become a monotonous drone; one he ignores in favour of listening for footsteps and watching every shadow for movement.

Regulus hasn't come home yet.

He's holding a mug of tea. It's Regulus' favourite, black and spattered with white paint from when they decided to paint the ceiling the hard way – the Muggle way – and it could have been cleaned with a good scourgify before it all dried, but Reg liked the way that the spatters looked like stars. Barty scrapes his thumbnail against one of the larger 'stars' and holds on. He doesn't drink. The tea is cold and he doesn't want it. He wants Reg.

He's not angry anymore. He was when he woke up, cold and alone with Regulus' side of the bed untouched. He'd cursed Reg; cursed Dumbledore's sainted Order who had surely found him. He'd grabbed his wand and his robe and he'd been halfway to the Floo in search of Reg's arsehole of a brother before he'd remembered that he had no idea where Sirius Black lived – he _still_ has no idea, and the waiting has gone past interminable.

He's _scared_.

Curled up in their windowseat, staring out at the street below, he's been drowning in his own thoughts. He's thought about every time in the last few weeks where Reg has fallen silent over dinner. The way he's caught him staring at odd moments; eyes wide and sad and fixed on his face like he's been trying to record every one of Barty's movements. He's thought about the Order and the Dark Lord and if Reg has had any orders; any time alone with their Lord that Barty he hasn't mentioned.

There was, a few weeks ago, but Regulus told him that it was a great honour; something to do with his old House Elf. He hasn't mentioned it since – not like Bellatrix and Lucius, who had honours bestowed on them at the same time – but Regulus has always been subtle. Shy, really, in comparison to his kin. He's not the type to brag. It can't have been that.

The wind rattles the panes of the window and drives the rain harder. The sky outside is turning dark; what little of the sun is left shines sickly yellow through the clouds, and Regulus still hasn't come home.

Barty doesn't want to think the worst. He _can't_ think the worst. The worst is a horrible, sinking bleakness; a dark and raining world without stars. Without Reg. How is he supposed to live without his Reg? He's been a constant in Barty's life ever since they met in Divination, third year, when they ended up reading each other's tea leaves and predicting grim fates. Barty remembers laughing when he said that the smear in Reg's cup meant he would drown; remembers how pale Reg went and how seriously he took the class. He wishes he could slap his younger self. Reg is missing. He could be drowning somewhere, out there in the rain, or choking on his underdeveloped lungs.

Persephone leaps onto the seat and puts her paws on his knees. She mews plaintively. She's Reg's cat, not his; he can count the number of times she's let him pet her on one hand. One mauled hand; she's a vicious, wicked creature, but she's here now. He scratches behind her ears. She misses Reg too.

Reg's cat, Reg's mug; the home they made together. It's a bachelor pad, is what he told his parents, but it's more than that. It's a third floor flat in a run-down apartment block with a kitchen so small that only one of them can fit in it at a time, but it's a promise of a future that's running in rivers down the street and swirling down the drains. Reg's tarot cards are still on the coffee table, and there's still a smudge of white paint on the wall from where he got tired of waiting for the decorating to be done and pinned Reg to it, knocking the brush from his hand as he kissed down his neck. They never did get round to cleaning that up.

He's surrounded by memories of things and times that should have been happy, but he's cold. He's so, so cold. He tries to find Dementors in the gathering dusk because they're _surely_ there, but all he sees are Muggles heading home, cowering under their umbrellas or huddling into their upturned collars. It's been raining since Reg left, just after dinner, with a sad smile and a kiss on Barty's cheek; Barty wonders if _Reg_ wasn't some sort of Dementor, ripping his soul away with a kiss and leaving him cold and forgotten. It's starting to dawn on him that they – the Dark Lord's soldiers – may not have all the power they think they do. That their safety net isn't always going to be there; that they, unlike their Lord, aren't invincible.

Reg had known. Reg had always known that. He was always hyper-aware of his own mortality. Black Squibs were still killed off in secret, and even the magical children had problems. So Reg had said when Barty asked him why he took so many potions – potions that he hasn't taken today. Potions he needs if he's going to get home without having an attack. His breathing always was made worse by the damp.

Persephone mews again. Louder, more insistent; her claws dig into his knees and he jolts at the sudden pain. She's hungry, he realises. Reg wasn't around to feed her today, and Barty hasn't been hungry since his rage faded and worry gutted him, curling into the cavity of his stomach and lodging itself there like a rock. He only made himself the bloody tea out of habit; he doesn't even know how long ago that was.

Persephone hisses at him; leaps off the seat and stalks off to stare at her dish instead of at him. Barty doesn't move. He stares out of the window and clutches Reg's mug, and watches as the darkness creeps in around him.

The rain traces tears down the face of his reflection, but Barty's grief is bone-deep and he's past the point of weeping. Without Reg to give him light and purpose, he's nothing more than an empty shell. Still, he sits and waits; for Reg or for the burning of his Mark. That's all he has left.


End file.
